


The Ballad of J.B. Barnes

by angrybaby



Series: I Loved You First [4]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Awkward, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Gayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Letters, Love, M/M, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sadness, Steve Rogers Feels, discovering sexuality, i guess, ok, prose, till the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-16 21:30:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10579863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrybaby/pseuds/angrybaby
Summary: Bucky wrote letters on the side. He didn’t say anything about it and Steve never asked.There's a swift progression from friends to lovers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last and final part of the I Loved You First series! Sad but yes, I guess. This part is written mostly in prose and was inspired by another story. But, I am completely blanking on who wrote it. Thank you to those who have read the other parts and commented! It means a lot to me! Thank you thank you thank you thank youuuuuu
> 
> follow me on my other social media accounts (linked in my personal description)

 

_ The following excerpts are diary entries from one James Buchanan Barnes. These entries were discovered years after the end of World War II, in which Barnes allegedly perished. Years later, after escaping the corrupt government administration, HYDRA, Barnes offered to add his newer entries to complete his story. The original copy can be found in the Smithsonian Museum of Washington D.C.  _

 

… 

 

Long nights stretched into one hot, lethargic summer. The very summer where my fake fantasies of loneliness were brought to life. The slow, ash filled breeze brought along my exit from my family. Oh, how it feels to be disowned. Ripped unceremoniously from the roots of your family and wiped off the ancestry plaque without so much as a second glance. But you. You accepted me with open arms and embraced me with such love that I would trade my family for you. 

 

Oh. Without you, my soul would be found in repose amongst those cast out into the fiery underworld. Flames would bare my body and take my name. But you held me through and through. I couldn't bare to shed a single tear in your sweet presence. I knew that if so much as one droplet were to escape my eye, a flood would ensue and I would harm you. 

 

I must protect you, my golden boy. You are the world to me. I belong to you. 

 

…

      

I said I moved into your room because I thought it would help you with your cold. You smiled and agreed with an appreciable nod. I tried to disguise my giddiness and prayed to god I could maintain oblivion. 

 

I vacated my room in five minutes. I don’t own much.

 

I slept in your bed that night. The bed was too small to accommodate both our bodies. I pressed my chest against your back and dismissed it as a condition that came with the close proximity. You mumbled an agreement with soft lips and dropping eyes. Your breath was ragged and filled the air with it’s retched noise. I wanted to close your lips, breathe my own breath into your lungs so they would inflate, deflate, soundly. You had only known sickness. I gripped you tighter and fell asleep to the crooked symphonies of your breathing.

 

… 

 

I wake years later, this time my breathing is the scratching needle on the record. You wake me with a shake of the shoulders. You grip my neck and look at me. 

 

There are so many things I wish to say to you. If only I could get out of my own head. We could be magnificent.

 

I watch you from a distance. You could block the sun with your shoulders, you could shield the moon with your body. You have grown and I have become so small. Where has the time gone?

 

I followed you like you were the North Star. And yes. You rival it in grace. You are my North Star. It’s a thing for the books.

 

… 

 

Bright red lipstick gives me headaches.The scent of Magnolia, too. You loved it, though. You would ask for a spray of it on your handkerchief to remind you of home. You would kiss until the red lipstick smeared on your face. I pretended that the red lipstick did not dig into my heart. That it did not make me despise anything red. That it did not make me compare red lipstick to the red of spilled blood. That, that is inhumane and too dramatic. Still. It gives me headaches. 

 

You loved it. I watched you fall in love. I felt as if my soul were spontaneously combusting, akin to a star dying. Still. You are my golden boy. 

 

…

 

In one fluid, effortless motion, you broke me in two. Nights ensued where I wouldn't shut my eyes, fearing of the nightmares that would manifest from my weak mind. I couldn't bare to think of how she could hurt you. I knew your mind. I knew you. If she were to make a wrong move, say something wrong, or look at you wrong, I know you'd be heartbroken. I was your guardian. Now, I watch over you behind a silk screen. I can never protect you. You throw yourself head first into these situations and I don't know if my heart can take it. I don't know. The foundations of my world have been ripped out and I'm spiraling out of control. You kept me tied to the ground but now the knot is loose and you are fading from me. How do I do this? 

 

…

 

You mean the world to me. Long before guns and women and dying consumed our minds, I made a promise to you. I bared my soul and anchored myself to your being. 

 

I will die protecting you. I will fight for you. I can never stop fighting for you. And when I die fighting, my fists will be raised and I will face the devil for you. 

 

No matter how many times you break my heart with your red lipstick stains. This is my promise and my oath to you. 

 

…

 

With hunched shoulders and a pointed chin, you told our men the plan. I watched your lips move and watched you mouth out every word. Your teeth gleamed white behind every word. 

 

I did not hear you. There is something wrong. This will be my last mission but I do not know how I know. Have I lost hope? I cannot. I cannot leave you here. 

 

That night, a storm blew over and made my bones  shiver like they used to. I tiptoed my way into your tent, you were awake. 

 

I slept soundly for the first time since I left. Why have we been such fools?

 

I love you . 

 

…

 

_ There were no letters written between 1941 and 2013. During this time, it has been revealed that Sergeant Barnes had been kept in cryostasis and used as an asset for the corrupt government agency, HYDRA. His significant memory loss and injuries inflicted on his mind made him forget his past life, leading to the confused feelings that persist within his letters in 2013 and onward. Recently, Sergeant Barnes has been gracious enough to share his letters with us and complete the entire set.  _

 

…

 

I'm sorry I can't remember you. I'm sorry I can't remember.

 

…

 

I do not recall much of the days in the ice. My mind had been stalled. I had reserved a spot for myself next to Satan, but my welcoming day never came. 

 

I found home. I broke the ice and made myself vulnerable in your surveillance. I let you baby me. I found home within your blue eyes, within your familiar arms. I built my life atop your shoulders. 

 

Still I ask myself why I let you do it. Why did I bring myself to you? How could I trust you when I couldn't even trust myself? I am blind in this, groping for the path of light to reality. You took my hand in the dark. You helped me. Why?

 

…

 

I am stumbling through this life. I am losing my path. Yes, your new friends help me but I still can't cope with this endless ache. 

 

Your hands shake. Your eyes waver. I can see it in your face. You're afraid of me. Afraid of how I could leave you in a heartbeat. 

 

And I want to. My recurring fits of anger, grief, and sadness leave my body lifeless. I cannot be who you want me to be. You are too scared to admit it. 

 

We’ve run out of time together. 

 

…

 

I love you. I know now and I don't know how I can but I do. Through years of brutality, my promise to you has persevered. The way I used to love you on the down low. How I used to be able to wrap my arms around your small frame. Your lousy lungs and constant illnesses. And now you're big and can fight off five hundred men at once. 

 

I still love you. I hope you don't know that. 

 

…

 

I catch your sneaking glances. I can see through you. Have you forgotten? I have studied you for a century. I know how you feel from a mile away. I don't know what I'm doing here. 

 

.…

 

Excuse me for being less eloquent nowadays. I’ve given up trying to be a poet. Could've been how they fried my brain. Could've been because I've muddled in some brain numbing tactics myself. But the point is, Steven Grant Rogers, you son of a bitch. I love you with my entire being. I never knew what love meant and you know that. You know how my ma and pa took love away from me. Or maybe I didn't tell you that? Well, now I know I've been searching in the wrong places. You were here all along. And I loved you without knowing it. I devoted myself to you but it wasn't by choice, I felt 

 

I guess I didn't have a choice, did I? Your old boy loved you the moment he laid eyes on you. He loved you like you created the universe. I remember. And what am I supposed to do now, you beautiful mess? All you do is look at me with your mind numbing eyes and hold me in your stupid arms and keep me safe from all of the bad things. How could I not love you again?

 

Sure, it's a new year. Sure, we've both changed. But the one thing that remains constant in this endless sea of variables is you and me. 

 

I love you. He loved you. I’ve loved you for centuries, through ice, through heat, through and through. I'll quote my more eloquent self: You are my North Star. As cheesy as that fucking sounds. 

 

Geez, Stevie. Why'd you go and make me like this?

 

…

 

_ The entries end here and this is all that Sergeant Barnes has graciously shared with us. It is a timeless and beautiful story that helps readers and historians alike to learn: who was Steve Rogers before Captain America?  _

 

… 

 

“Did you read the news? People are going crazy over your letters.”

 

Bucky stiffens considerably in his seat. Steve isn't supposed to know about the letters yet. He's not ready yet. 

 

“Did you read them?” 

 

Steve gives him an offended look. “Cmon, Buck. I know what privacy is. Figured I'd let you keep the letters to yourself like you always did. Except now they…”

 

“Are shared with the rest of the world and everyone knows about it.”

 

“Yeah and I don't.”

 

“Wanna take a trip to the Smithsonian?”

 

“I dunno. Sam was planning on something today.”

 

Bucky punches Steve, who shoves him. 

 

… 

 

Bucky studies Steve as he reads the letters. Watches the subtle ways his face changes, ways only Bucky can catch. The drop of the chin, the twitching eyebrow, the pursing of the lips. He's thinking. Really thinking.

 

Steve closes the book quietly. He looks around to find Bucky, but he can't see him. The room is less crowded now, only a small group of elderly people walk around the exhibit. Steve catches a shadow move in his peripheral vision. 

 

“Bucky?”

 

He emerges. “What did you think?”

 

“Let's go get some coffee.”

 

Bucky follows him without a word. 

 

…

 

“Why didn't you ever tell me?”

 

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. “Oh, I dunno, internalized homophobia, homophobia in general? Brainwashing?”

 

“Are you trying to make me feel guilty?” Steve sounds angry. 

 

Bucky regrets everything. It was so much easier when Steve didn't know. “Sorry. Just. Weird to talk about it. Thought you'd hate me or something.”

 

Steve takes his hand, surprising Bucky with the intimacy. “It doesn’t have to be weird, Buck. This is you.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. And I could never hate you. How could I?”

 

“I dunno. My mind was going crazy after I figured it out. Felt like the only conclusion.”

 

“Well. I don't hate you. In fact, I quite like you.”

 

“Really? Didn’t think so.” Bucky says it jokingly but something sparks in his chest. Steve removes his hand. Bucky has hurt him. Dammit. They continue to talk about pointless things, but there is a tangible tension between the two.

 

… 

 

It’s awkward for a few months. But what's a few months to a century? They tiptoe around each other. Bucky feels the atmosphere change, though. The sneaking glances are prolonged and the pained look on Steve’s face has faded to an expression of content. 

 

Another thing that has changed is close proximity. Maybe Bucky is just more aware of it. Their touches linger, they hug more often. The invisible wall that separated them had somewhat diminished. Bucky feels more at home than ever. 

 

… 

 

It happens in a rapid secession.

 

Tony has a party and they are invited. They get fitted for suits via Tony’s tailor. It's all good and nice but Bucky can't stand all of the contact. He flinches whenever the tailor briefly touches him. When he measures the inseam, Bucky almost punches the living day lights out of the man. Steve thanks the man and says that will be all for today. Bucky is shaking when they leave the tower. 

 

They stop for pastries at the cute bakery shop. Steve buys Bucky a ridiculous coffee drink concoction and a chocolate croissant. It's enough to put a smile back on Bucky’s face and shake off the incident. 

 

So, Steve might be realizing a thing. When he stays up at night, nose pointed to the heavens and eyes wide open, he realizes a bunch of things. If only he could do something as grand as a collection of letters. Too bad Steve never tried continuity with his paintings or sketches. Wait. 

 

He calls the Smithsonian the next day. A package arrives at their apartment door the next day. 

 

… 

 

Bucky notices the sketchbooks on tucked behind the other books on their small bookshelf on a Monday that Steve is gone for SHIELD work. There's something familiar about them that he can't quite place. When he runs a hand down their spines, he sees sunshine filled days, golden hair, empty stomachs, and hardwood floors. It's almost too much to process. He plucks one of the books from its hidden position and sits down, back resting against the base of the bookshelf. He opens the cover and sees in Steve’s slanted scrawl:

 

Steven G Rogers (1935)

 

He breathes in the smell of old paper. Carefully, he flips the first page. 

 

There are sketches of him in a time he strains to remember. There he is, face obscured by a hat, sleeping on a park bench. There's another of him, crouched in front of what looks like cards on the floor. Bucky relives the past through the sketches. 

 

… 

 

Tony’s gala is set for the upcoming weekend and Bucky has yet to bring up the topic of the hidden sketchbooks. He notices Steve hovering around the bookshelf but Bucky can never muster the strength to ask. 

 

Bucky steps out of the shower. There's a great deal of steam and the mirror is fogged over. Taking a towel, he wipes a circle and looks at himself. He takes in his jagged edges, the rough lines of his face, and the shadows in his eyes. He looks less like the old Bucky. He's more a shadow of his past self. He goes along, combing his hair back and out of his eyes. He shaves carefully. He brushes his teeth and then leaves the bathroom. 

 

The suit was delivered yesterday by one of Tony’s workers. The blazer and dress pants are a steely blue. The shirt is a crisp white and there's a little gray handkerchief to fold into his breast pocket. To say it fits nice is an understatement. In his mirror, he looks at himself again. Damn. He puts the synthetic sleeve on his metal hand to disguise it. He reaches far back into his closet and pulls out the watch Tony had gifted to him as a ‘sorry for being an ass about a past event you couldn't have controlled’ present. He puts on his shiny dress shoes and smooths his hair back once more. 

 

Steve’s waiting for him in the kitchen, staring at the bookshelf pushed up on the opposite wall. If Bucky does a double take at the sight of Steve, well, that's just for Bucky to know. Steve's dressed in all black, from the shirt to the shoes. He's fixed his hair (thank god) and it sweeps up to reveal his entire face. His cheekbones are more pronounced and his jawline looks sharp enough to cut. Bucky’s breath obviously does not catch in the back of his throat. He also doesn't hover in the shadows for a second more just to observe Steve. But, enhanced super soldier senses gives Bucky away and Steve calls out his name. Bucky steps out into the light, mumbling, “Ta da.”

 

An expression crosses Steve’s face too quickly for Bucky to register. He makes a noise as if clearing his throat and then nods towards the door. “Ready to leave?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

 

Bucky stutters and gosh, he knows he looks like a complete fool. Just seeing Steve in a suit has reduced him to a babbling idiot. Steve looks at him with such a fond look Bucky’s mouth forgets how to make sounds. He looks so. He looks like the world. Bucky is asking for the world.

 

“Do we have to go?” Bucky asks. It comes out as a growling whisper. It’s embarrassing, but this is so right.

 

“Then we got all dressed up for nothin’.”

 

He moves towards Steve as if wading through water. Steve doesn’t back away, he doesn’t cringe away, he looks at him with darkened eyes. He looks a little scared as Bucky stops in front of him, a breath away. “Well, I think you look real good,” Bucky says softly.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Steve breathes, his eyes glazed over.

 

“Beautiful? C’mon, Stevie. I ain’t no dame,” Bucky chuckles. Steve shakes himself out of his daze and goes completely red. He reaches a hand behind his head and rubs at his neck, dipping his head.

 

“Did I really just say that? Jeez.”

 

“Hey. It’s no biggie. Say, I gotta question.”

 

“Anything, Buck.”

 

“Could I kiss-”

 

And then Bucky is pressed tightly against Steve’s broad chest, breathing in Steve and letting himself melt into the kiss. It’s awkward, Bucky was still talking when Steve stepped forward and kissed him. There’s a bit of lip on teeth, but Bucky isn’t minding that. He’s kissing Steve and this is the best thing he’s ever known.

 

They break.

 

“I love you.”

 

“I know. I love you, too.”

 

And Bucky’s heart has never been so full.

 

… 

 

“Oh, hey Tony, what’s up?”

 

“Where were you at my Gala last night? I lost my main source of old people jokes.”

 

“Oh yeah, something happened last night with Bucky-”

 

“What? Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about that. How are you guys holding up? Do you need breakfast? I’m going to send you breakfast. Hope everything's going smoothly now. Expect food in less than 20 minutes or else I’m firing somebody.”

 

Tony hangs up and Steve laughs loudly. Bucky shifts from where he fell asleep next to him. He rubs his eyes and pulls on the bedcover. “Cold,” he grumbles.

 

“Good morning, sunshine.”   
  


“It’s 8:30 in the morning. It’s night time.” Bucky submerges in a sea of blankets and Steve grins.

 

“Breakfast in 20, compliments of Tony.”

 

“Nice,” Bucky says, muffled by the layers. Under the blankets, Bucky is smiling. Smiling through years of repression, years of being told this was wrong, years of self hatred. This is his happy place. He doesn’t want to move. He belongs here.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
